


Now Or Never

by LyingMonsters



Series: Aleatory-verse [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Cold War, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bad Flirting, Berlin (City), Berlin Wall, Cold War, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Historical, Inspired by Elvis Presley songs, Internalized Homophobia, Irresponsible Drinking, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Military, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War II, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-10-07 04:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17359205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyingMonsters/pseuds/LyingMonsters
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is a regular British soldier hoping his term occupying West Berlin will start and end without incident so he can keep the military job he desperately needs. That’s when Alfred F. Jones, a brash, wild American, walks into his life, and who might end up being the answer to all his questions.Inspired by the Elvis Presley song of the same name.





	1. Eureka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's now or never, come hold me tight
> 
> Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight 
> 
> Tomorrow will be too late
> 
> -Now Or Never

_September 1961, West Berlin_

Arthur had a pounding headache from the new American forces that had arrived earlier. They were loud and arrogant and they had already driven him out of his favourite bar to this smaller but marginally quieter one within a few weeks of their arrival. Scowling into his drink, Arthur drained the glass. He’d even tolerate the frogs over the Americans because at least _they_ didn’t act like everyone should kiss their shined boots because they were the _heroes_. He just wanted a calm term in Berlin and be able to go home intact, but of course, the bloody Yanks flew in and did what they did best-turning the world upside down.

Drinking to get rid of the headache might not have been Arthur’s smartest idea twenty minutes ago, but if he was about to be defeated by his own weak constitution, he may as well have not come.

‘Another,’ he told the bartender, who he thought might have given him a very funny look as he did so.

‘You sure about that?’ someone across the table asked. Arthur couldn’t tell if he’d been there this whole time, but he wasn’t about to let somebody with an _American_ accent tell him what was or wasn’t safe. He knew his limits! He was fine, and he told the nosy man exactly so right before slamming back half the glass.

‘Jesus _Christ_ ,’ he coughed after his eyes had stopped watering. His throat was on fire. ‘What the _hell_ was in that thing?’

‘You got mine, I think.’ The American swirled the remains and laughed. ‘Yep! Straight bourbon.’

‘It’s terrible,’ Arthur said. ‘Give it back.’

The man raised an eyebrow. Arthur grabbed for it and only missed the mark once. He took another gulp and managed not to cough.

‘You don’t look great,’ the American told him. Arthur waved him off. Once you got past the burn, the taste wasn’t entirely horrible. He took a smaller sip and decided it might even be tolerable. It felt like fire in his stomach, too, hot and prideful and as liquid as courage could get, and if the Americans drank this, he could almost understand why they acted how they did. Arthur leaned back in his chair and tried for confidence.

‘Bourbon, you said?’

‘Yeah. This pretty high gravity to you?’

‘Gravity?’

‘Strong. Pretty strong?’ He poured his own glass and drank it without flinching. Show-off. ‘What’s your normal?’

‘Tennents.’

‘The ones with the pinup girls on the can?’ his American asked after a short pause. He sounded almost unhappy, no longer so teasing, and Arthur didn’t know why that made him feel all hot and prickly inside.

‘Well, not those!’ Arthur took another gulp and tried to steady his racing heartbeat, which didn’t work. ‘I don’t get it for that. I get it to drink. There’s probably better ways to do those things than buying cans of beer.’

‘Better ways,’ he repeated.

Arthur decided it would be good to leave before this conversation was pursued further and he revealed things he’d rather not ever be mentioned again, because the American would probably spread rumours and then he’d be out of this military job he desperately needed.

‘Yes. Well, unless you have some urgent business with me you’ve failed to inform me about, I’ll be going.’ He coughed and tried to stand up, but the floor swayed and he decided to stay put for a second.

‘We’ve never been introduced, have we?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ Arthur said, hoping he’d get the hint. Unfortunately, his American didn’t seem to know what subtlety was. Not that any of them did, but this one was especially stubborn and brash and loud and generally too _American_.

‘Officer Alfred F. Jones, American flying ace here to save the world. At your service, Mr…?’

‘Right, then, Alfred, your friends have already driven me out of my favourite bar, kindly leave me to enjoy this one. In peace.’ He slid the bourbon across to Alfred and tried to stand up. The world tipped aggressively and he grabbed the back of his chair to stop from falling. Alfred’s eyes were the only non-spinning thing in the room, and it wasn’t his fault he focused on them-they were sky blue, like he’d flown his plane too much and gotten the sunlight and atmosphere stuck in his skin and hair and eyes.

‘And you are?’ Alfred hinted again, pouring two glasses, and since it really would have been a shame to let it go to waste, Arthur sat back down and took the glass. He caught a flicker of a smile from Alfred, a different smile, unabashedly happy, which made his head spin. Why was he even still drinking? Why was he drinking with Alfred, of all people? Alfred should know he wasn’t everything, and that there was definitely better options if he would just go home even if Arthur didn’t know who they were right now.

‘You’re drinking with me because-well, you said it yourself! I’m the all-American pilot, and you can’t resist my charm. I don’t blame you, I _am_ the hero.’ He brought out that stupidly winning smile again. ‘Or because you don’t look like you can stand up.’

Arthur reminded himself that Alfred was one of the self-professed _heroes_ and more particularly a boasting, rowdy _pilot_ , for the love of God. He was definitely too drunk to be thinking clearly, and that he should probably just leave and go back to camp to sleep and never think of this persistent American soldier ever again, but he didn’t think he could leave his thoughts of Alfred entirely in this place if he wanted.

‘Come on, what’s your name?’ Alfred ragged.

‘Arthur Kirkland, I suppose. Pleasure.’ He tipped back his glass and scowled. It was already empty. Alfred made a sound that Arthur hoped wasn’t a laugh and refilled. ‘What does the F stand for?’ he asked, determinedly not looking at Alfred, who was definitely smiling now, if not laughing, and bent closer than Arthur had thought he was. _Damn_ that smile, and damn his bright blue eyes, and while he was at it, damn his whole stupid _pilot_ thing. He was stupid, all of this was completely stupid, but Arthur found himself pausing for Alfred’s answer.

‘Would you believe me if I said it stood for Freedom?’

Arthur snorted and sat back, the odd allure broken and reprimanding himself for feeling it. ‘No.’

‘Then I’ll have to tell you that it’s actually for Foster. Don’t tell my friends that, though, they’re still calling me Alfred _Fucking_ Jones.’ He leaned further forward and Arthur almost slopped his drink down his front. ‘Don’t tell anyone, right?’

‘Right. Fine.’ Arthur turned away and took another sip to steady his nerves. Alfred was eyeing him, and if he’d just stop _smiling_ , Arthur could maybe think of anything at all.

‘Come on, aren’t you happy to see me? I’m the hero who’s taking this place out of the dumps and putting it back on the streets!’ Alfred nudged his arm and Arthur tried to not inhale his bourbon.

‘Do you do this to everyone you meet?’ Arthur asked, wiping off his mouth. Alfred raised an eyebrow. ‘This whole-this whole _hero_ routine. Doesn’t it get old?’

‘Of course I do it, what else would I do?’ Alfred grinned. ‘Well, not for everyone. Just those I feel like getting to know better. You can’t say my charm isn’t working at least a little bit. See, you’re smiling!’

‘I am not,’ Arthur said, hurriedly schooling  his face back into neutrality.

‘You should. You look good when you smile.’ He fell silent, eyeing Arthur over the rim of his glass, the lamplight playing off his own smile. ‘You look good any time, really.’ 

Arthur took a drink and didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.

‘I have a deal for you,’ Alfred said suddenly, holding out a hand. Arthur stared at it incredulously. ‘Come on, unless you’re a Russian spy, I don’t bite.’

‘I’m not.’ Arthur shook his hand. His American squeezed gently before letting go.

‘I’m not Soviet, either.’

‘If you were, I’d wonder how the Russians got someone as American as you,’ Arthur said, and was rewarded with a surprised flash of white teeth. ‘Don’t smile at me like that, it wasn’t supposed to be a compliment. You bloody Yanks are always so... _American_.’ The drinking was definitely affecting him now. ‘Give me another.’

‘That’s like saying you’re really British,’ Alfred noted with a grin, refilling his glass.

‘I’m English, and that’s not an insult,’ Arthur said loftily. Really, the bourbon wasn’t bad at all.

‘English, then. Either way, you're a soldier of the refined gentleman sort, and that's exactly the type for an American from New York.’

‘Type?’

‘For a partner.’ Alfred’s eyes caught his for a second, surprisingly intense. He had a cowlick, which was a strange thing to notice in the midst of this smoky bar conversation, but he did.

Arthur looked away first and heard Alfred cough and sit back. His pulse pounded in his ears.

‘For the plan,’ Alfred clarified lowly.

‘Oh.’ Arthur knew that sounded stupid and a little bit pathetic, but he’d _thought_ -

‘About the plan-’

‘Right. The plan. What is your plan?’ He raised his glass, prepared for something like vandalizing an officer’s quarters and already prepared to say he had urgent business elsewhere.

‘I need to get into the East,’ Alfred said. ‘Incognito, you understand?’

Arthur choked on his mouthful of bourbon and collapsed forward onto the table, wheezing for air. Alfred jumped up and thumped him on the back.

‘Careful, there, Artie.’

‘Don’t call me Artie,’ Arthur groaned into the table. It was cool, or his face was burning up, and he felt like going to sleep right here. ‘Forget it, Alfred. I’m not helping you start a war on whichever officer’s orders you follow.’

‘Actually, I’m the officer.’ Alfred tapped his insignia with a proud smile. ‘One of the youngest ever. This isn’t on orders. I just want to see the Brandenburg Gate.’

‘You’re going to start another war over seeing the _Brandenburg Gate_ ,’ Arthur said. ‘Why can’t you just look at it from this side?’

‘That’s not the real experience, and besides-well, that’s not important. I won’t start anything! I’ll be careful.’

‘Like you even know what the word means.’ Arthur groped for his glass and couldn’t find it. ‘Where’s my bourbon?’

‘I’m not giving it back until you agree to help me out. Word says you Brits don’t have curfew, so you can do it.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Arthur said, trying to grab for his glass. Alfred held it up over his head. ‘You’re ridiculous. Bloody pilots, never should trust a single one of you, my da said so…wanted to get into the RAF myself, didn’t make it.’

‘Help me get into the East and you’ll never hear from me again,’ Alfred said. Arthur made another lunge for it and finally slumped across the table.

‘Who even says I don’t want to see you?’ he slurred. ‘Alfred F. Jones. You’ve got a _stupid_ name, you know, too American. American pilot. You’re hell. Give me back my bourbon.’

‘I fly a bomber, if you want to know. See the jacket?’

‘Stupid jacket. I want it,’ Arthur told him, the world spinning.

Alfred chuckled, and Arthur’s glass was pushed back into his hands.

‘Take it. But if you want another…’

‘I have to get you to _Brandenburg_ ,’ Arthur complained, nearly knocking the bottle over. ‘You’re going to start a war, Alfred. You know there’s thirty thousand Stasi spies behind the Wall, all looking for someone idiotic enough to decide that their military term is a great time for _sightseeing_.’

‘There's no way there’s _that_ many, and besides, they’ll never catch me. You’ll keep me safe, right? And I’ll keep you safe.’

‘I’m not going, I told you.’

Alfred raised an eyebrow, filled another drink, and slid it across to Arthur.

‘Will this convince you?’

‘No,’ Arthur mumbled firmly, trying to focus on Alfred before giving up, and drank it. ‘You’re not very good at following through on your promises, I already got two glasses out of you. Why the hell you wanna see the Gate, anyways? Bloody pretty building but not worth a war, God. Why cant’cha go on your own?’

‘Well, because Alfred F. Jones is no longer welcome in East Berlin.’ Alfred looked appropriately abashed, his ears pink.

‘What did’ja do?’ Arthur fairly shouted, waving a hand at him that ended up on his shoulder. ‘How did you get the entire government mad at you in-how long you been here, two days?’

‘A month or so.’ Alfred didn’t move his hand off his shoulder, which Arthur was thankful for since he probably would have collapsed forward without his steady warm weight. ‘I got into a small disagreement with a colonel over there about a week ago, and they told me never to show my face there again.’

‘ _How,’_ Arthur asked, wrapping his hands around the bottle and feeling the familiar fire in his throat, straining to keep his eyes focused-nothing really mattered except Alfred right now, strangely. ‘-have you not gotten yourself killed yet? No, shut up, I’m taking you over, bloody miracle you survived this long without someone like me to make sure you don’t make stupid decisions.’ He drained the glass and pulled on Alfred’s arm, but he wouldn’t move. Must be muscular.

‘Really, man?’ Alfred looked surprised as Arthur flung his wallet in the table, hauled him up and dragged him into the thankfully cooler air outside. ‘Wait-hold on, I said-I think I got you way too blitzed, we can go tomorrow-oh, shit, sorry, Artie.’

‘Don’ call me that,’ Arthur mumbled, dragging him further along the road. ‘Where’s the Gate?’

‘Arthur, are you sure you’re thinking straight? The Wall is back there.’

‘You’re the one who isn’t,’ Arthur shot back, right before tripping on a streetlight. ‘Who put that there?’

Alfred swore, picking him up off the sidewalk with surprising ease.

‘Oh, goddamn, that looked painful-how many fingers am I holding up, Artie-Arthur, I mean? Talk to me, man!’

‘Eight,’ Arthur tried, squinting into the moonlight. The multicoloured light pouring from the bars and streetlights and playing on his skin and hair made Alfred look unearthly, like a small series of miracles that hadn’t gotten himself killed long enough to show up for Arthur like this.

‘You’re seeing double, let’s get you home.’

‘No!’ Arthur struggled and ended up on a bench. He looked around in bemusement about how he’d gotten there. ‘You wanted to get into the East.’

Alfred was sitting next to him, trying to look concerned. He was smiling and Arthur was fascinated by the little ways he couldn’t hide happiness.

‘Okay, we can’t just go walking in. I have a car someone lent me, it has all the new plates and everything, but you’re too drunk to drive me in.’

‘’M not too drunk,’ Arthur said. ‘Barely even dizzy-Alfred, _that tree is going to fall on me_.’

‘You are way too dizzy.’ Alfred gently pried Arthur’s hands off his uniform. ‘The tree is fine. You’re the one who isn’t. Can you even walk?’

‘’Course I can,’ Arthur declared. Alfred caught him before he hit the pavement.

‘Tomorrow.’ Alfred picked him up, and Arthur hazily looked up at him. His eyes stayed blue in the thousand colours of night life, glancing down at him with a light like fondness.

‘’M cold,’ Arthur mumbled, leaning against his chest. Alfred laughed quietly and pulled off his jacket to wrap Arthur in.

Alfred found the British quarters after a long time wandering. The good thing was that nobody saw them stumble in drunk and bleary, and the bad thing was that Alfred was shivering from so long in the cold.

‘I gave you exact directions,’ Arthur told him as Alfred carried him up the stairs of the apartments, slumping over his pillow as Alfred pulled off his boots. Everything was warm and silent and Alfred’s hands were steady and smelled like sweets. ‘You’re lucky you have me to stop you from making stupid decisions, really, did you honestly think the British sector was down that Ku’damm street thing?’

‘Okay, Artie.’ Alfred arranged him in bed, hands lingering at his collar buttons before hastily pulling away. ‘You can stay in your uniform for tonight, right? It shouldn’t be too bad.’

‘Mmm.’ Arthur pulled the pillows into his face. ‘You stayin’?’

‘Naw, I gotta go home.’

‘Stay,’ Arthur insisted, catching his hand. ‘Please.’ He wanted Alfred here, wanted to keep his thousand colours and those sky blue eyes. Alfred hesitated, eyes searching his face, before gently stepping back.

‘Can’t. I wish I could, though, darlin’, I really do. I’ll take you up on that offer another day.’

Arthur nodded, too exhausted and exhilarated to do anything, the word _darlin_ ’ settling into his soaring heart.

‘G’night, Alfred,’ he mumbled sleepily.

‘Goodnight, Artie.’ He felt more than saw Alfred lean down and kiss his forehead, breath quiet and hands brushing his sweaty bangs out of his face before he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eureka: a cry of joy or satisfaction when one finds or discovers something.
> 
> This story is set in the same verse as Don’t Ask Me Why, but can be read alone.
> 
> :: Old, towering brick buildings


	2. Chapter Two

Arthur's mouth was dry and tasted terrible when he woke up, and his head was liable to split open.

'I'm never drinking again,' he swore, burying his face deeper into his pillow to shut out the light drilling into his head. The fabric smelled strange, a mixture of what he thought might be sunlight and...chocolate.

Some blurry recollection from his dream of arms wrapped around him and skin that smelled like sugar tumbled through his mind, and Arthur groaned in despair and pressed his burning face even further into the pillow. It tickled his nose, and he sat up in irritation to uncrumple the pillowcase and promptly realized his pillow was in fact a leather jacket with wool around the collar. It was definitely not his, since it was American.

Arthur warily looked around, but his apartment room was empty and devoid of any explanation as to why he was wearing an American's jacket. He felt around in the pockets for a clue and pulled out his mostly empty wallet. There was a note inside.

_Hey Artie!_

_You probably won't remember, but I carried you home after you got really drunk. Don't worry, I saved your wallet, see! As to why it's empty, well, the bill tab was pretty big. You drank a lot_.

_You promised to get me into the East tomorrow (I guess it'll be today when you read this) and it's perfectly safe so don't worry, everything will be fine and I, your hero, will protect you. Meet me at the Cuckoo's Egg bar at eight PM. Wear your uniform._

_It's the time to live, Arthur, now or never_.

_Yours always,_

_Alfred F. Jones (American hero)_

_P.S. Bring my jacket when you come_.

Arthur groaned and buried his face in his hands. This was even worse than he'd ever imagined. He'd gotten drunk and done who knows what with an American and now he was wearing his jacket. Had he revealed his _inclinations_? How had he agreed to such an utterly dangerous, inane plan? He reread the letter, lingering on the name at the bottom that made his heart squeeze. Alfred F. Jones. You didn't get a more American name than that.

Shaking his head in frustration, Arthur got out of bed, stiff joints complaining, immeasurably grateful that he was still in the familiar uniform he was wearing when he remembered setting out in last night. That was the only good thing to have come out of the whole ordeal.

He stumbled to the bathroom and looked at himself. His hair was sticking up and his eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform cut a conflicting picture with Alfred's jacket. He tugged down the collar, frowning. If it hadn't been American, he would have liked it. The RAF had new fighters and bombers now, and beautiful things they were. It was a shame he hadn't been selected to fly.

The bugle sounded outside, and with a jolt of panic, he remembered that the military job he already had was going to be jeopardized if he didn't get to drill on time. He hastily threw the jacket onto his bed and tugged a brush through the worst of his hair before he rushed off.

0o0o0o

Drill had been even worse than normal with his hangover, but when Arthur returned to his apartment, he wished it hadn't ended yet. There was still a few hours before eight, and all he could do was pace the floor and speculate about who Alfred was. He found himself with the jacket more and more frequently. It was crumpled from being slept in. Arthur supposed it was his obligation to clean it. It was a welcome distraction until the clock finally showed near eight.

He folded the now cleaned and pressed jacket under his arm and started walking, wondering if he'd already made a mistake.

Standing outside the bar, eight o'clock came and went without sign of Americans. Arthur was fuming. Standing here holding the leather jacket, waiting for someone who'd apparently stood him up made him feel foolish. With a huff, he turned to go when someone grabbed his shoulder.

'You came!'

Arthur frowned up at the man. He was younger-looking than he'd first assumed, with messy golden hair and bright blue eyes that shone against the streetlights. He was wearing a simple shirt and tight jeans. Arthur swallowed and forced his eyes back up to his smile.

'Do I know you?' he asked carefully, stepping back.

His expressive face fell slightly. 'You haven't forgotten me, have you? You did drink a lot. At least you found my note. I'm so sorry I'm late, I had to borrow this shirt from Mattie.' He collected himself and offered a tanned hand. 'I guess I should introduce myself again. I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm in the military too, the Air Force, on one of the bombers, but I'm just not in my uniform. They don't take too well to American uniforms over there.'

'I'm Arthur Kirkland.' They shook.

'I know,' Alfred added. 'I kind of hoped you were going to remember me, but, you...you really don't remember anything? From when I took you home?'

'Not a thing,' Arthur said. Alfred's ears were pink, and he could feel heat rising to his face. 'Why?'

'No reason!' Alfred beamed, his flush spreading across his cheeks. Arthur looked away first. 'You brought my jacket!'

'I did.'

Alfred eagerly took it, shaking it out of the folds. 'Wow, you even cleaned it. You didn't need to do that.'

'It's really nothing.' Arthur coughed and composed himself. 'What's this about the East? If it's too stupidly American, or if it's dangerous, I'm not going to do it. Promises you make when drunk don't count, you know.'

'Really?' Alfred frowned. 'No, it's not dangerous. I've just got a real beauty I need you to help me with. Everything's already set up for us.'

A faintly sick feeling was beginning in Arthur's stomach. 'A...beauty?'

Alfred winked. 'Oh, she's gorgeous. Love of my life. Come on, she's what we're using to get in.'

He broke into a run. Arthur followed. He had no interest in this. He didn't want to help Alfred flirt with some pretty woman to go cavorting in the East. It made sense that the American was so easy about these kinds of things, he thought bitterly. No girl could resist that bright smile.

Alfred soon slowed in front of a garage near the border. Crooning music played softly from behind the brightly spray-painted corrugated steel door. Alfred hauled the door up and motioned him in.

The space was an explosion of colour, and seemed to double as an art exhibit and studio. Strange sculptures and collages lined the space, and the walls were decorated with splatters of paint. People watched their entrance idly before returning to their art. In the middle of it all sat a car.

'There she is,' Alfred said proudly, spreading his arms. Arthur blinked.

'Your... _beauty_ is a car?' he asked, feeling strangely both disappointed and relieved.

'A '55 _Thunderbird_ car,' Alfred corrected, smoothing his hands over the hood. 'Isn't she gorgeous? She's on loan from a friend. You're going to drive her in while I hide. Nobody questions you Brits when you're driving nice cars.'

It _was_ a nice car, in a pleasing robin's egg blue colour, but the whole thing was perplexing. 'Why can't you drive yourself in?'

Alfred waved his question off. 'Don't worry about that. Here, I'll pull it out of the garage. Which side of the road do you drive on here? I can't understand the signs.'

'Drive on the right.'

Five minutes later, Alfred was huddled in the backseat under a blanket and Arthur, feeling ridiculous and fully expecting to be caught and stripped of his military post, pulled up to Checkpoint Charlie. The sign declaring the end of the American sector loomed. He wondered what he would say to the officers if it was discovered he was smuggling Americans across the border.

The officer at the crossing point held out a hand for his papers.

'Name, occupation, and purpose?' he asked in deep, accented English.

'Arthur Kirkland, British Army, for enjoyment.'

After what felt like an eternity examining them, he handed them back and nodded to go. Arthur noticed his hands were very faintly smudged with a variety of bright colours, just like in the garage. In surprise, he glanced up and met startled, piercing blue eyes. They both gripped the papers for another half second before letting go.

Silently, as if still in shock, Arthur pulled the car forward again and through the border. On the other side, leaning against the Wall, a guard watched, gun slung over his back, his skin too pale against his darker uniform. He took the papers as well, coppery eyes flashing out from below the brim of his cap.

‘Nice car.’ His English was accented and, his mouth seemed to have a permanent snarl. Arthur said nothing. ’Won’t get you over if these papers are fake.’

’They’re not.’

'Military?' he asked. His mouth curled up into a smile. 'Go ahead. Welcome to the East.'

Arthur nodded, throat dry with nerves, and followed the lines of orange cones to the street.

He parked the Thunderbird behind a nearby building and leaned over to tell Alfred they'd made it, but he'd already leaped out of the car, looking around in amazement.

'Really doesn't feel that different than the West,' he mused. ''Course, the land doesn't care what flag is flown above it. Welcome to the East, Arthur.'

Arthur could argue that it felt a good deal more like someone was always watching over their shoulders, but he kept it to himself.

'Come on, I'm going to buy you a drink,' Alfred said.

'Did you actually have something to do over here or not?' Arthur asked aggravatedly. 'You could have just gone drinking in the West.'

'This is for you!' He beamed. Arthur found himself not for the first time unable to resist, and agreed.

Alfred led them to a smaller place with a carved wooden sign depicting a Roman helmet. The place was crowded to bursting with the construction workers and Wall guards. People carefully sat apart depending on their uniforms. The atmosphere was tense. A spark could set it alight.

Arthur was starting to regret wearing his uniform. As he stood at the door, people turned to gape openly, muttering among themselves. Alfred looked past him and pushed in, lit up like lightning in the grey.

'Where's the music?' he asked. He had a point. The bar was nearly silent. When nobody answered, he broke into a grin. 'Come on, everyone likes music. Where's the fun in silence?'

'Order something or get out,' the bartender growled from the counter. Alfred put down a pile of notes.

'Shot of bourbon and...do you have Tennents?' He glanced back at Arthur. 'The stuff in the can, you know. It's for my friend.'

Arthur was beyond wondering why Alfred knew his order. He accepted the can and sat down at the bar beside a man with an intimidating glare and watched America's finest wreak his havoc.

Oh, Alfred was going to be the death of him.

He picked his way over to the jukebox and climbed up on a stool there.

'Who has requests?' he shouted. 'Come on, there's no way nobody here likes music. You, with the blue coat, next to my friend. What do you want?'

The man might have smiled. It was hard to tell. 'Elvis.'

Elvis music was not what Arthur had expected, but he wasn't going to argue. Alfred nodded excitedly, motioning to the crowd that was now starting to sit up for their drinks and take notice. Either Alfred would be cheered or attacked. Arthur couldn't blame the crowd either way.

Alfred buried himself with the jukebox until the music began to play. The bartender sat back, but some people began to sing, voices rusty from lack of use.'

' _Tomorrow will be too late, it's now or never, my love won't wait…_ '

Alfred encouraged them, crooning out the verses with a passion. His voice still cracked on the long notes. Arthur wondered how old he was, but pushed it away in favour of listening to the soldiers and workers sing, led by the American boy who was now with a foot up on the table, one hand over his heart, one outstretched as if he was singing the anthem. When the song finished, people applauded. Arthur applauded along with them, amazed.

Alfred collapsed into the seat next to him, grinning broadly.

'How are you?' he asked. Arthur took a moment to think of how Alfred had led the song, but still came back to _him_. It made him feel light and warm at the same time, like drinking just before he was too drunk.

'Good. That was impressive.'

Alfred shrugged. 'I just thought they'd like music. Did _you_ like it?'

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Of course I did.'

'Good. That's good.' Alfred settled down and threw back his bourbon. 'I like music. I really like stargazing, too, but you can't do it too well in the cities, there's too many lights. I used to go out to the country back home where it was dark and watch all night. What do you like to do, Arthur?'

Arthur had been watching his face light up as he spoke and shook himself out of staring.

'I had a book of poetry,' he began hesitantly.

'Awesome! Can I read it?'

'No, I sold it. I lost all my money to a bet with an annoying Frenchman,' Arthur said bitterly. 'It's not the point. I remember it had Keats' odes in there.'

Alfred blinked. 'Who's Keats?'

Arthur finished his can and set it aside. His body was warm and easier and Alfred was watching him with such intensity. He smiled. 'What do you mean you don't know who John Keats is? Don't tell me all you like is Elvis. I'll have to introduce you to good writing and better rock music.'

'That sounds good,' Alfred said warmly. Arthur knew he should look away and say something to break their quiet ease, but for once, he didn't.

Finally, Alfred nodded, as if he'd just confirmed something, stood up, and held out his hand. Arthur took it and Alfred pulled him to his feet.

'Thanks for all of this,' he said. 'Driving me over and letting me do everything.'

'It's for you,' Arthur said. 'A gift, I suppose. You…helped me yesterday, and now our debts are repaid.' The bell jingled as they left.

'So that's it?' he asked with a hint of disappointment. 'Can I still, y'know-see you around?'

'Of course,' he said in surprise. 'I'm not going anywhere. Where can I go? The Wall is up.'

'Oh. Right!' Alfred was shivering in his T-shirt. Arthur felt bad, and passed him his uniform jacket. It was only right, seeing as he had lent him the leather jacket last night. 'Thanks, Artie.'

'I'm sure I've said not to call me that.'

'Oh, yeah. Sorry.'

'Don't mention it.'

Alfred tucked himself into the jacket, broader shoulders curling in to fit. 'We'll have to see each other again before my term here is done,' he promised earnestly. Arthur agreed.

They were almost back to the car, and night was beginning to fall.

'What did you want over here for, after all?' Arthur asked in amusement, expecting something just as dangerous and electric as Alfred-a spy mission, or a secret political power shift.

'I wanted to see the Brandenburg Gate,' Alfred answered instantly. 'Here, can you take a picture of me with it?'

Arthur stopped in disbelief to rethink exactly how stupid Alfred F. Jones could be, considering he'd risked both their jobs and their lives to get a photograph of him with a building, but accepted the small camera and took a picture.

'Thanks, man! Here, I'll get one of you, too.'

'Hold on,' Arthur protested, but Alfred had already positioned him in front of the Gate and snapped a photo.

'You look great,' he assured him.

'You're a menace,' Arthur muttered, trying to fix his hair from where Alfred had accidentally ruffled it.

Alfred just laughed. 'Come on, we should get back to the car.'

The drive back across was without incident. Arthur hoped nobody asked where his uniform jacket was, but the pale guard had left and the man on the other side just nodded him through.

Maybe the land didn't recognize flags, but Arthur certainly breathed easier on familiar soil. He drove up to the garage. Alfred sat up from the back and clambered carefully into the front.

'I'm glad we did this,' he said sincerely. Arthur coughed again.

'Yes, well. It was nice enough. Don't expect me to do it again, though. Your American antics aren't worth my job.'

'Alright, Artie.' Alfred reached out suddenly and pushed a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. Arthur gripped the steering wheel harder, eyes on him. 'I...I'll catch you again somewhere. Tomorrow? Are you free tomorrow? Same place, maybe at noon? I could go for some lunch.'

Arthur found himself nodding, mouth too dry to speak clearly. Rain had begun to fall outside their windows, past the shelter of the garage, and the car was warm and safe and close. Alfred absolutely shone with excitement. He stripped off Arthur's jacket and folded it up before handing it back. It was a poor folding job, in honesty, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to care.

Alfred got out of the car and ran out into the rain. His shirt stuck against his shoulders and outlined the dip at the base of his spine, right above his hips. Arthur swallowed hard.

'Good thing we missed this in the East,' he said, winking, and ran off, whooping. Arthur only realized after he'd gone that his small camera was still clutched in his hand.

Arthur carefully wrapped the camera in his jacket, stowed it underneath his arm to shield it from the rain and kept to the overhanging eaves when he walked.

There was no way he could go back to camp this charged and dizzy. There was a film shop he'd seen coming in, and after a hazy few minutes of wandering, he found it and asked to develop the pictures. When they were done, he quickly took them home.

This feeling wasn't from the drinking. It was from Alfred F. Jones, a lingering buzz of emotion through every bone in his body. Arthur was already looking forward, though he didn't want to admit it, to tomorrow.

When he got up to his apartment, he took out the photographs. His-he looked flushed and confused and out of his depth, with a hesitant smile. His hair was sticking up from being manhandled in front of the Gate. But there-Alfred, hair upswept, arms flung out to hold the world, the lights of the city just barely coming on behind him in a blur of gold. The Gate-the old architecture should be the focus, but it wasn't. Arthur stared and stared at Alfred's smile and his eyes and his mouth and those jeans. Oh lord, those jeans.

He carefully placed the picture aside, buried his face in his pillow, and lay there, silently sleepless, until dawn was edging grey light through his window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Thunderbird car mentioned is from a note in the comic strip.
> 
> :: The smell of gasoline from old cars when it's hot


	3. Chapter Three

Arthur had carefully stowed the pictures and camera in his cabinet, out of sight, before breakfast. What had happened-what _still_ was happening, still blossoming between him and Alfred was a dangerous secret. Arthur's brothers had long had their suspicions about his preferences, but he hoped the news hadn't progressed to the rest of the troops. It would lead to him being dishonourably discharged at the very least.

His hair was still tousled from Alfred when he went down for breakfast, and he absentmindedly picked at the oatmeal. He was thinking of Alfred's photo again, and his mind was drifting back to those damnedly tight jeans-who even wore jeans like that except ridiculous Americans? Stupidly charming, brash, bourbon-drinking Americans, and their laughs and jeans and _jackets_ -

' _Arthur_ ,' someone next to him said in a tone that implied it hadn't been the first time. Arthur jolted out of his reverie, hurriedly forcing his smile into a look of dismissive neutrality. His heart was thumping against his ribs in worry that he'd have been seen. The soldier squinted at him, smoke curling up around his ears. Arthur racked his brains to remember his name and came up blank.

'I didn't get much sleep last night, my apologies,' he said, not so much faking his yawn as encouraging it. 'What did you say?'

'You've been smiling into your grits for two days,' he pointed out. 'Did you get yourself a girl?'

Arthur couldn't help his face heating up. 'No,' he said quickly.

'Why not? The girls prefer us soldiers with a bit of money,' he said offhandedly. 'Tell you what, I'll go with you tonight and help you out. Show you around.'

Arthur couldn't think of anything he'd rather do less. He fumbled for an explanation that didn't include that he was going to lunch with an American soldier and came up blank. He would have to agree, and nodded.

The soldier nodded decisively as well, looking pleased. As disgruntled as Arthur was, he couldn't fault him as much as he wanted.

'I'll be busy until quite late,' Arthur said brusquely, hoping to salvage some of his day. The soldier laughed and clapped his shoulder.

'No worries, I'll wait around until you get back.'

Arthur forced somewhat of a smile and shoveled down the rest of his bland porridge.

0o0o0o

Arthur arrived to the bar early, the photographs bundled in his pocket, wanting to treat himself to a drink or two. Maybe if he was drunk, it would be easier to tell Alfred he had to cut their day short in order to go off with a soldier he barely knew and pay a girl to-

He shook himself out of it. No use ruining the one brilliant thing about his military job here with reminders of that. He was about to push the door open when he spotted Alfred already inside, talking to someone at a far table. His jacket was hung over a chair nearby.

Feeling slightly disappointed and not knowing why, Arthur hesitated. The offer to find a girl seemed slightly more attractive, in a strange way. It couldn't be that he was _jealous_ , it was only that he'd wanted Alfred to focus on him.

Just as he was about to leave and come back later, Alfred turned and caught his eye. Arthur was reflecting that the military should have been no place for someone like him to find someone like Alfred. They were from different units, different branches, different countries, but Alfred still lit up when he saw him. Arthur gave him a smile back and came in.

Alfred met him at the table, pulling out both their chairs. He was wearing the same shirt, but dress slacks. Arthur was more than slightly flattered and impressed. It didn't hurt that he looked good in the sharp clothes. His enthusiasm, however, was unchanged.

'Artie! I mean, Arthur!' he exclaimed, his ears reddening slightly. Arthur didn't reprimand him-it was almost endearing, as much as he would normally hate the nickname. Even in the dim light, Alfred gleamed just as brightly as ever. 'Do you like this place? A lot of my troops come here.'

Arthur delicately decided not to say that _he'd_ used to come here before the Americans overran it. 'It's nice enough. You don't have any more mad plans today, do you?' he asked archly, accepting the Tennets that was handed over.

'Not yet,' Alfred answered cheerfully. He spread his tanned, large hands out on the mahogany table, and Arthur had a sudden urge to place his on top. He grabbed for his drink instead and took a deep gulp, almost choking on it, instead. Alfred, to his credit, didn't notice.

'You know how I was talking to the two back there, you see, the one who's blond, six something and built like a tank with the pretty curly-haired artist who's talking to him?' Alfred gestured in a way Arthur guessed was supposed to be subtle. He glanced over the rim of his drink, easily finding the severe blond haircut. His pulse sped up. It was the guard he'd spoken to yesterday, with the paint on his hands, and so the artist must be his girlfriend.

He looked sideways and the artist caught his eye. His hair was a mess of curls and there was paint smears on his clothes. Arthur's heart nearly stopped. This was _not_ the guard's girlfriend, but-well, he was rather attractive, but _Alfred_ had called him-

'As I was saying, the artist, he's Italian and I heard him say this one phrase when I was walking by: _ti amo_.' Alfred looked rather proud of himself. Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him his pronunciation was terrible. He didn't know how to breach the subject of how he'd called him _pretty_. 'And I asked, and he said it meant _I love you_.'

Arthur realized in an instant _exactly_ what was happening at the next table and sat in shock. It wasn't like he hadn't _expected_ some of it, this being Berlin, but it made his skin prickle down to his fingertips and he wanted to talk, or to meet, or just to lock eyes with them and know if they saw the same in him, or in Alfred.

Alfred continued, blissfully unaware.

'I think I'd like to learn those kinds of things. Y'know, charm someone by doing something in another language. I tried getting Mattie to teach me some German a while back but I can never pronounce it right.'

'I don't know any other languages,' Arthur managed. 'Except French, which doesn't count.'

It was the only thing he could think of to say. Alfred finally noticed what Arthur was sure was his flamingly red face.

'Are you okay?'

'Perfectly fine.' Arthur grabbed for the nearest glass and took a long drink. It happened to be Alfred's bourbon, but he supposed he was acquiring a taste for it. Alfred watched him, his smile broadening, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Arthur felt even more flustered.

'If you want me to buy you bourbon after this instead of your pinup beer, I'll do it,' he said. Arthur had no idea what to say-his heart pounded and his mouth was dry and Alfred's hand lay next to his, and in a stupid, reckless movement that Arthur hoped looked accidental, he shifted back and placed his hand so their fingers overlapped.

'I don't say no to free alcohol,' he said, voice cracking slightly. 'Even if it is American.'

'I knew I'd turn you,' Alfred said, grinning, and ordered another two glasses for the both of them.

Arthur was most of the way through his glass when Alfred spoke again.

'Not that I don't love drinking with you, but I did offer to buy you lunch, so…' He shrugged and his ears pinked again. Arthur stared. 'I'll get us burgers?'

'They sell burgers here?' Arthur asked, impressed that he'd planned in advance.

'I don't know. Hey!' Alfred flagged down the nearest girl. 'Machst du...burger? Do you have burgers here?'

She nodded and left. His pronunciation was truly terrible, but he looked satisfied. As they waited, Arthur wondered about how to tell him what he'd agreed to, but the idea of what Alfred's expression would be when Arthur said he was leaving him for that made his stomach twist.

It's not like he would understand, Arthur thought bitterly. Alfred joked about his girl, his _beauty_ , his Thunderbird. With his looks, he had probably never had problems charming any girl into his bed. He'd said the artist was _pretty_ , but it was such an offhand remark that it could have meant nothing. He wouldn't get that Arthur had to do this so people wouldn't start to whisper things that would get him discharged, and Arthur was in no mood to explain.

It wasn't fair to either of them, but that was the kind of life that had to be lived.

'Hey, Arthur,' Alfred said, his voice strangely intense and quiet. His hand shifted closer, wrapping against his until their fingers were almost twined. Those blue eyes looked into his, and Arthur was caught. 'Are you okay?'

He would have said that he was fine, but the door was thrown open and Alfred was out of his chair and shielding his body with his. It had all happened in a heartbeat, and Arthur's hand that usually dropped to his gun was tangled in a tight grip with Alfred's. His heart raced. Alfred's skin smelled like chocolate and sunshine and bourbon and his leather jacket. His hand was gripping so tightly Arthur nearly couldn't feel it, but everything else hummed.

'Altercation at the border, near Checkpoint Charlie. All American troops on duty and police who are stationed in the area are ordered to prepare,' the man said, before turning sharply on his heel and disappearing once more. The door swung shut, and Arthur blinked to get the afterimages of the brightness away.

Alfred didn't move for a moment. Then he slowly stepped back. Neither of them let go, which was stupid to do in a bar full of soldiers rushing out, but those blue eyes made the world disappear.

'Guess I have to go, Artie,' Alfred said with a slight laugh, but it fell away.

'But you're a pilot.'

'I have to go back to my bomber.' Alfred shrugged jerkily. His eyes were blank. 'It must be serious if we're all being called in.'

Arthur was suddenly swept by a wave of terror. Alfred could turn this city to ash if one thing went wrong. He gripped Alfred's hand harder, focusing him back on his words.

'Don't you go and get us all into a certain-death situation, you reckless, stupid American, you hear me?' he hissed. His eyes stung. Tonight, everything could be destroyed, and this fragile love born in these backstreets vanished. Alfred, in all his wonderful brightness, could set a city aflame.

Alfred's strained expression broke into a sad smile. 'It's not my choice to drop the nukes, Arthur. I just follow orders.'

'Well, then that's the problem, isn't it?' Arthur said, blinking against the halos of lights. 'Following this war. Haven't you thought about this? Could you really destroy it all?'

This was treacherous talk-soldiers saying what they all knew, that a single pilot could destroy so much. But Arthur had started to fall in love with the way the lights from the oldest streets here shone off Alfred's hair, with the way he seemed to be an extension of this wild city with how he looked in the rain. Berlin had changed him. If this city could be art instead of war, Alfred could be, too. With all his beautiful kinetic energy, he could never be just another soldier bound to orders.

Alfred looked torn for a second, and his other hand brushed back his hair. 'I think it's pretty clear between us, Arthur,' he said softly, 'which one's the worldly one. You know poetry and French and you're brilliant for everything. I'm just a pilot. That's all I'm good for. But even I get it when the big ones say we're facing M.A.D.'

' _You're_ mad,' Arthur told him. _And I love it_.

'I'm mad enough to promise you that whatever happens at that border today, I will not follow an order to bomb,' Alfred swore to him. And then he grinned, a short flash of white teeth, and kissed Arthur's knuckles.

For a second, he floated. Alfred understood. And then the real world came rushing back in, and Arthur realized there was still an officer in the nearly empty bar. The guard he'd seen yesterday, with the paint-stained hands, was standing beside them, staring. Alfred's grip tightened on his hand before he dropped it and stepped away. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say. The action had been both of their death warrants.

Arthur looked up and met his blue eyes, piercing and stern. He searched for a hint that what he'd guessed was right. For a moment that felt like an eternity, Arthur and the guard stared into each other's eyes, until something changed in the icy depths.

'If the Americans command a bombing, get Feliciano out of Berlin with the troops,' he said. His voice was still deep, but it caught slightly on the name.

'Of course,' Arthur promised, gratefulness making him weak. The guard nodded sharply, eyes shifting to Alfred. Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched away.

'He's not going to…?' Alfred looked confused. Arthur just laughed. Everything in him was loose and exhausted with relief.

'He's like-' He caught himself before he said _us_. The reminder still stung. 'He has preferences. He thinks we're the same way.'

'He has preferences?' Alfred's brow furrowed, and then his gaze landed on the artist, Feliciano, and sudden understanding dawned in his eyes. 'Oh, he's...but I _am_ -'

Someone outside shouted to go, and Alfred jolted up and ran. Arthur watched him go, wishing despite himself that he'd said a better goodbye just in case.

He folded the stirrings of feelings back behind his heart and turned to Feliciano, jerking his head at the door. The silence hung too heavy in the bar now. As they walked out into the bright sunlight, Arthur tried to talk.

'I'm keeping you safe for a bit,' he said. 'In case the city gets bombed.'

'It won't,' Feliciano said. 'It's probably just a political dissent at the border with this group of revolutionaries. Ludwig told me about them.'

'Ludwig. Is that his name?' Arthur asked. 'How do you know him?'

'We...we're just friends,' Feliciano said. His face was slightly red, and he looked over apprehensively. Arthur glanced around before taking a deep breath.

'I understand what you two are like,' he said. 'My friend-Alfred, the American, you know-overheard you. He didn't realize, but I did.'

Feliciano had stopped in the middle of the street. Arthur turned back to him. His face was lit up with a mixture of fear and hope.

'Don't tell anyone,' he whispered. 'Please. I mean, you can tell if you want about me, even my brother knows, but Ludwig said his brother argued with him about-'

'I won't,' Arthur interrupted. 'Your-your Ludwig saw Alfred and I.'

'Is Alfred the same way?' Feliciano asked curiously. Seemingly reassured, he fell back into step. Arthur laughed harshly. As much as he would have liked to say yes, he wouldn't give himself that hope.

'No. It's just me.' Just me, he thought bitterly, standing around and disclosing the information that would cost him everything to every stranger he'd just met.

'Oh. But I thought…' Feliciano squinted at him for a disconcerting moment. 'If you say so.'

'I do,' Arthur said, ignoring how off-balance he felt. 'Now, I suppose I should take you back to base.'

0o0o0o

Arthur had been worried about how his fellow soldiers would treat the artist, but Feliciano charmed them. He immediately launched into a talk about the art scene, and people were fascinated.

'Take care of him,' he requested. 'If anything happens at the border, take him out of the city with you. If nothing happens…'

'I'll find my way back,' Feliciano put in. He beamed. 'I've never been to a British base. I asked Ludwig to show me the checkpoint, but he wasn't allowed.'

'Agreed,' the soldier from the morning said with a smile at him, which he then turned on Arthur. 'So, Arthur, are you ready to go for a night? It might be your last chance for a while, given the situation near the checkpoint.'

Arthur resigned himself to an uncomfortable hour. 'Fine.'

The walk down to the district was nothing like walking around the East with Alfred. All Arthur could concentrate on was the absurdity of it all, the awkward way he could think of nothing to say, and the brightness of the sun in his eyes. He'd taken off his jacket, it was too hot.

'You look tense,' the man said suddenly. 'Maybe you want to loosen up a bit at a bar before we go?'

Eager to delay the dreaded action as much as possible, Arthur allowed himself to be led into one of the bars lining the street.

They sat down and Arthur ordered bourbon before he thought twice. The soldier raised an eyebrow at him.

'Ain't bourbon a touch American?'

'I ordered a round for some Yankee who was too drunk to do it himself yesterday,' Arthur lied smoothly, though his pulse jumped. 'My mistake. I'll have Tennets.'

They brought his bourbon regardless, and Arthur secretly savoured the memory of Alfred. The awkward conversation died out quickly, and they sat and drank in quiet. Silently, Arthur let himself fume over what he had to do later. He'd nearly never had any interest in this, and it was useless to ponder how it would be with a man. Especially Alfred, because that road led only to heartache.

Arthur must have been further gone than he thought, because when the ideas of Alfred started to crowd against the edges of his forced imagining of what his time would be like with the girl, he didn't ignore them like he had before. He closed his eyes and tasted liquid courage and let himself imagine Alfred close and warm and his, touching and being touched-

It would never feel right doing this, Arthur knew. And maybe he was drunk and dizzy and longing, and maybe this was stupid and would lead to problems, but he wasn't going to go find some girl and spend the entire time wishing she was someone else. If his life would only crash into Alfred's brash energy in the streets of Berlin for a few short weeks, he was going to enjoy them, damn it all.

He slammed down his glass harder than he meant to and stood up. The floor swayed.

'I have to go,' he said. The man looked up in surprise, but his eyes were hazy.

'Why?'

'It's important,' Arthur said, waving him off and staggering from the bar towards the Wall. He was going to find his American and tell him what he wanted, or at least tell him what he hadn't done. He'd made it to the outskirts of the square when he saw the bruised and bloodied protestor being led away, the smears of copper on the ground, and the soldiers on both sides disbanding. He'd made it just in time.

He turned around to go find the American base. It couldn't be that difficult, he thought, but it was almost dark before he found it.

'I have a message for Alfred F. Jones,' he told the private who questioned him. 'Where is he?'

He was pointed towards a large apartment-style building and told the number, and before he knew it, Arthur was knocking on a simple wooden door adorned with a flag and a poster of an eagle. Alfred opened the door, looking as wonderful as ever, and his expressive face changed through astonishment, confusion, and joy.

'Arthur!'

'Can I come in?'

'Of course, we're friends.' Alfred sat them both down in armchairs with glasses of bourbon. More drinking might not have been the best idea, but Arthur drank anyways. His head was spinning and pleasantly blurry.

'Brought you your pictures,' Arthur mumbled, thrusting out his jacket. Alfred rifled through the pockets and pulled out the two, which he stared at for a long moment before setting carefully on the table. There was a quiet of drinking before he spoke again.

'So, why are you here? Can't have just been for the pictures,' he said, like it had just occurred to him. Arthur laughed. The room was tipping dangerously and Alfred's gaze was locked on his, which only made him dizzier.

'Another soldier tried to get me to go out and get a girl,' he said. Alfred nodded.

'I get that. You know, my team is always saying I should go out and do that, blow off steam, whatever.'

'Did you?' Arthur asked.

'Once,' Alfred said, and finally broke their gaze. 'Wasn't all I expected, really. Why'd you drop out?'

'It's not what I prefer,' Arthur said archly. His words felt sluggish, and he couldn't stop saying what was on his mind. 'I talked to Feliciano. He's the same way as me, 'cept I think he also does it.'

'Does what?'

'Like girls.' The words were out and Arthur should feel panic, but there was only the warm weight of alcohol and the waiting. Alfred didn't say anything for a long moment. Arthur downed the last of his liquid courage and leaned forward. Alfred did too, until they were nearly touching. Arthur could count his eyelashes and the shading of his blue-sky eyes. 'Go on, ask me why I'm not out in the district with a girl right now.'

'Why?'

'I don't want them. I want you instead.'

Alfred was very still for a second, and then said, shakily, 'You shouldn't say that.'

'I don't care,' Arthur said, grabbing his bourbon and taking a sip. 'My brothers already suspect. ''Less you tell the army…' There was a faint prickle of fear at that, but he was too warm and loose to care about anything but Alfred right now. His beautiful blue eyes crinkled around the edges again in a strange expression, and he laughed, gripping the edges of his chair. His face was flushed red.

'I ain't telling anyone, Artie. The only person you're killin' with those words is me.'

'Why?'

'Gives me hope,' Alfred said. He blinked slowly. 'Doesn't matter, though.'

'Why?' Arthur asked again. Another slow blink.

'Did you really forget everything about that first night?'

'Yes.'

Alfred's brow furrowed in a sort of smile. 'I brought you home and-and kissed you on the forehead, called you darlin'. I know I shouldn't have.' He leaned closer, thumb stroking against the back of Arthur's hand. 'I thought...thought when you came back the next day, you were tellin' me you didn't want that by pretending you forgot me. So I backed off.'

'You're stupid,' Arthur said. Something inside of him ached at the idea of Alfred's voice around the word _darlin_ ', and he cursed that he couldn't remember it. Alfred closed his eyes and his smile grew.

'Not stupid enough to start a war.'

'Good.' Arthur lifted the glass to take another drink and found Alfred's hand covering it and intense blue eyes on his. His heartbeat was a hum.

'Do you want me to be sorry for what I did?' Alfred asked him.

'No.'

'Good.' Alfred's smile broke exultant and close, close to his. 'Because I don't regret it. In fact, I kind of want to…'

'Do it again,' Arthur said, challenging, wanting, everything in him straining towards this. Alfred stared into his eyes for a heartbeat and then whispered, ' _Alright, darlin_ ',' against his neck and kissed right next to his mouth.

They broke apart. Arthur was buzzing to his fingertips. This felt like a dream, but Alfred was here, and beautiful.

'That wasn't on the forehead,' he said. He took a long drink of his bourbon and set the empty glass down. Alfred grabbed the bottle off the table and refilled both their glasses.

'Didn't mean it to be.'

'Good,' Arthur said, because everything was good, lying here with this American soldier, feeling lighter than he had since before he arrived in the city.

They shared the rest until the sunlight spilled in gold in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :: Painting bold colours


End file.
